


Hubble Bubble

by Dryad



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Lite Casefile, New Flatmates, Old Friends, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-18 08:24:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21541309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad
Summary: Youth - it's wasted on the young.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16
Collections: Holmestice Exchange - Winter 2019





	Hubble Bubble

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dovahlock221](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dovahlock221/gifts).



John watched his new flatmate putter about his desk under the pretense of reading the paper. He wasn't really interested in the letters to this week's Agony Aunt (oh, who was he kidding, some of the stories were quite unbelievable!), but he figured it was good practice at reading people when they weren't right in front of his face. Sherlock was preternaturally good at it. Okay yes, John had some skills in that area, he would be a piss-poor Captain if he wasn't able to read what the boys under his command might do in a firefight, how they might be feeling after reading that letter from home.

Even so. 

Sherlock put John's own meager talents to shame. And yet...Sherlock wasn't perfect at it. John was continuously astounded by those people who were so good at reading knowing what was inside of everyone's hearts but their own, and Sherlock was absolutely definitely one of those them.

"If you're going to keep staring at me, I suggest you make us something for lunch, and then you can stare at me up close."

Mortified at being caught, John gripped the edges of the paper tight, then gave up any pretense that he had been doing anything but staring. Maybe this wasn't going to work out after all. "I'm not your cook," he said shortly, even while realizing he wanted another cup of tea and maybe a biscuit or two, there was a packet of McVittie's in the upper cabinet, he'd seen it yesterday while on the hunt for the bag of rice he'd brought from the bedsit.

"I like curries," replied Sherlock, peering at John through his fringe. "Most foreign foods, actually, except some of the more fermented Asian delicacies. Unfortunately not to my taste, although I understand the historical necessity for such preserved items and why they continue to be popular even unto the present day."

Good god. Seriously, he couldn't afford to move out, but he also wasn't sure he could take this level of constant patter. Silence was okay once in awhile! Besides, he had yet to have proof that Sherlock 'sometimes kept quiet for days'. If anything the man was a motor-mouth, always running.

"Kimchi being an exception, obviously."

Tea. He needed tea. And an escape plan. Yes, definitely an escape plan, John thought as he headed towards the kitchen. But what, and to where? 

John filled the kettle and thumbed the switch to 'on'. He took two mugs from the dish rack, two spoons from the drawer. He reached for the sugar bowl before remembering Sherlock's desperate grab for it two days prior, turned and took the bag from the cupboard instead. Tea? Yes, just where he had left it from yesterday. Didn't appear to have been opened again, which game him a little confidence. Too much paraphernalia for chemistry was lying about; he'd hate to get things mixed up. The problem was that he didn't think Sherlock was as scrupulous, and in no way was he going to become an experiment for Sherlock, flatmate or no.

He brought the tea plus a plate of biscuits in to the lounge, leaving one mug on the desk and bringing the other back to the sofa. No, the chair - he really loved the chair. Two biscuits later, Sherlock shot to his feet.

"Case!" he shouted. "Not much of a case, but I'm bored, John, and I want out of the house. Also, biscuits and tea aren't lunch. Get dressed, let's go!"

John glanced down at himself: jumper, trousers, shoes. Sherlock on the other hand: a loose and torn tee shirt, pyjama bottoms stained dark with...probably best not to think about it, actually. Barefoot. John didn't move as Sherlock swept by him. He still wasn't sure what to make of his new flatmate.

Okay yes, he had killed for the man...he wasn't sorry for it, even though deep in the dark recesses of his mind he thought he maybe ought to be. Maybe if he wasn't a soldier...? John contemplated the thought for a moment before discarding it completely. He was a soldier, he took people apart. He was also a surgeon, he put people back together again. The two halves of himself had never - not ever - argued with one another. He smiled a little, gulped down the rest of his tea, put away the dishes. Sherlock was busy muttering to himself in his bedroom, leaving John free to use the toilet and make himself presentable. Nothing to be done about the grey in his hair. Good thing he wasn't a vain man about his looks. Besides, he had pulled enough to know it that for him looks weren't the draw. He wasn't sure what the draw was, actually.

A few minutes later he followed Sherlock down the stairs and outside, into the waiting cab.

"We're off to Flying Carpets, by the American Embassy. Terrible building, much like Americans themselves," said Sherlock, checking his phone and smiling to himself.

John frowned. "Come on, they're not all that bad."

"Maybe not, but the building is."

Not long after, they were dropped on in Berkley Square and John was forced to agree. The building was squat and square concrete monstrosity with a plentitude of framed windows in some kind of bizarre Brutalist experiment, and just plain ugly. Thankfully they were headed down a side street, to a corner gallery displaying antique furniture in the windows, mirrors in mother-of-pearl mosaic reflecting the cut work metal lampshades hanging from the ceiling. An enormous, multi-armed and multicolored glass hookah loomed near the front door. Although the shop was hardly Chicken Street, John had seen similar in his travels, and while he had always thought the carved wooden chairs and tables and armoires were beautiful, they looked completely out of place here in dismal grey London. Even the warmth of the dark rosewood and jewel tones of silk seat cushions was somehow diminished on this overcast day. All down to the light, he mused, running one finger along the edge of a wide brass bowl. Seeing furniture like this in its proper environment, now that was another thing altogether. 

What had been the name of that house in Kabul? Damned if he could remember. Big, though, and traditional. Beautiful on the inside. He'd had a job to fulfill, sweeping the rooms for Mirza Daniyal for reasons that were bullshit. The women and girls standing in the inner courtyard, vibrating with rage and fear at the foreign men invading their domain had made John feel terrible. He wished he could have said he hated it too, yet orders were orders and the sooner he was done doing what was required, the sooner he would be gone, much to everyone's happiness.

"Sherlock!" cried one of the two men at the back of the shop. He was Asian, with a thick black mustache, wearing a maroon turban but otherwise dressed in a white shirt and tan trousers, the matching suit jacket draped over the back of a nearby chair. He reached out with both hands and clasped one of Sherlock's warmly between them, then shook John's hand as well, smiling brightly all the while.

John wasn't offended by the man's loose grip; he was experienced enough of Pakistani and Afghani culture not to take things like that personally. 

"John, this is Athar. He's the manager of Flying Carpets."

"Pleased to meet you," said Athar, his citrus scented cologne struggling against the strongly spiced air of the shop; someone here burned incense on the regular. "This is Tawfiq, he works here three days a week. I asked Osman to be here, but his wife's in labor and he didn't want to miss the big reveal, as it were. Now if you'll come this way, I've had tea prepared - "

John plastered a smile on his face at the thought. He wasn't one to turn down tea, but his back teeth were going to float if he had any more today. Behind him the bell above the shop door chimed as someone came in, Tawfiq brushing by with a murmured apology before greeting the new customers heartily. John really hated that kind of greeting. Let him shop in peace, for fuck sakes, not false joy.

Sherlock didn't look back; John did. Tall bloke in a sharp suit held the door open for a blonde woman in a fur coat. She was perfectly coiffed and made up, gold heels glittering in the soft light of the shop. The fur looked real, some color between cognac and pale tobacco. Her gaze passed over John the same way his might pass over a pot of yogurt in the dairy aisle at the grocery store: nothing to see there, nothing of interest for him. She said something to her companion and John turned towards the back room, where Athar was holding the door open for Sherlock. Athar wore a wide smile showing too much teeth. John didn't like it. It was a smile of anxiety, one he was used to seeing in the mirror every day.

"Sherlock Holmes!" rang out across the store. "I thought that was you! Come over here, you old bugger - "

Granted, John didn't know Sherlock very well, and he was annoyed multiple times a day by the berk and it had only been three days since he'd moved from the bedsit to Baker St, yet he could read the back of Sherlock's long coat like dialogue in a play. 

First, how the shoulders grew a smidgen wider as Sherlock straightened ever so minutely. 

Second, the twitch to close the coat, regardless of whether or not it was buttoned.

Third, the swirl of the skirt as Sherlock spun in place.

"Tommy Sutherland, remember? Of course you do, how could anyone forget that skip one night, am I right or what? This is Dahlia, the wife. She's heard all about you."

Contrary to what John expected, Sherlock neither disappeared into the back room nor deduced either Mrs. Sutherland or her husband. He simply stood there, eyes wide.

Sutherland put his hand on his wife's back and pressed her forward, speaking loudly all the while. "We boarded together at school, me and Sherl and Athar, right Athar?"

Athar had a rictus of a smile on his lips as he nodded. "Yeah, that's right. Just for that year."

"Oh for god's sake," Mrs. Sutherland muttered, plopping onto a chair close to John. She put her elbow on the table and rested her head on the heel of her hand, clearly bored with having to suffer the magnanimity of her husband talking to his old school chums.

As for Sherlock, he remained frozen in place and for the life of him John could not understand why. This was a man who'd faced down a murderer, who nearly took a pill that might have killed him _just so he would know_ , and he was frightened of a gobshite like Sutherland? Maybe 'frightened' was too strong a word, but John couldn't think of another that fit.

Of course now it was John's turn to play audience. Sutherland looked at him with an upraised eyebrow and a curled lip. "And who might you be?"

Okay. "John Watson."

“He’s my flatmate,” interjected Sherlock.  
Eyebrows raised, Sutherland snorted. "Flatmate? Good luck, old son. Be careful of whatever he puts in the fridge, he might kill you without even trying!"

John shrugged in the face of Sutherland's laughter. "Not before I kill him first."

"Eh?"

John smiled, didn't let it reach his eyes as he strode towards Sherlock and Athar. "You'll have to excuse us, we've business to attend to."

"Business?" Sutherland practically shouted. "I think you'll find I'm the only one with money to spend, unless our Sherl's been up to his old tricks."

Why was it that some people just had to be utter arseholes? Why did some people say ridiculous shite regardless of whether or not it was true, or worse, lie outright? What kind of childhood had they had, where they never grew up? John pondered all of these questions in an instant before deciding Sutherland wasn't worth his time or effort. But seriously, what kind of TV character was Sutherland, to be so...ridiculous?

"That's enough, Tom," Athar said quietly. 

"Oh, 'Tom', is it now?" said Sutherland, frowning. "I wasn't aware we were on a first name basis. I was this close to being head boy - "

Head boy? What was this, the 1930s?

" - and then you fucked off to Lahore and the military after you said your peace, never gave me a chance to get my revenge - "

Mrs. Sutherland sighed loudly, which had the effect of Sutherland whipping around and sticking his finger in her face. "Don't you start!"

"Mr. Watson," called Athar, gesturing towards the open door. "Would you care to come through?"

"Yeah..." John didn't like putting his back to Sutherland, but business was business and anything was better than sitting around at home. 

The 'case' as Sherlock had called it, took a few minutes to solve, much to Athar's chagrin. He shoved a few papers around on his desk, shaking his head. "I should have figured this out on my own. I feel like an idiot."

Sherlock shrugged. "Most people are."

"Still, I'm sorry I dragged out here today. Especially because, y'know," Athar jerked his head towards the door. "He hasn't been by in weeks, I thought he might have given up torturing me."

"Did you really go to college with him?" asked John.

Athar nodded. "Unfortunately. He and his little cohort tossed Sherlock into a skip one night and I shopped him for it. He's had a grudge against me ever since. I mean it's been thirteen years, get over it!"

"Pathetic," agreed John. He leaned back a bit and glanced at the shop floor. Sutherland was still there, looming over Tawfiq, picking up this item and that.

"When are you coming over for dinner?" asked Athar. "Meena keeps saying she wants to meet you. She's only six so she doesn't know any better, but I figure that since you're still a child you'll both get along. She can show you her collection of bugs, they're labeled and everything."

At this, Sherlock perked up. "She's a scientist! Excellent, we'll be there at 5pm tomorrow. John, let's go."

"Wait, tomorrow? Layla needs more notice that that - how about next week? Next month?!"

John didn't know what to say, mouthed 'sorry' instead and trotted after Sherlock.

"Leaving so soon?" called Sutherland. He stood next to the giant hookah, dropping one of its arms as he saw Sherlock heading towards the front door.

Sherlock didn't pause, and neither did John. A taxi miraculously appeared and they popped in, Sherlock tersely giving directions back to Baker St.

A few minutes later they were stuck in a traffic jam, the lights of an ambulance strobing clear a few cars ahead. The silence was oppressive, and John, who ordinarily wasn't inclined to involve himself in how other people felt, said, "I don't like bullies. And he was a bully. If you hadn't already realized."

"I am aware of that," said Sherlock, staring out of the other window. "Not rocket science, John."

"Yes, well. Sometimes it's hard to see when you're in the thick of it."

Sherlock didn't reply, leaving John to wonder if he'd overstepped the mark. "But seriously, that guy was a jerk. Who even acts like that outside of a soap opera? No one! Are you sure he isn't extra on EastEnders? Corrie? Emmerdale?"

With a sniff and an upturned lip, Sherlock looked at John. "Emmerdale Farm? Don't be stupid, he'd be one of the rubbish parents on Brookside."

"Hollyoaks," offered John, smiling slightly. 

"Skins," said Sherlock, raising an eyebrow.

"El Dorado - "

"El Dorado - "

They said it as one, which made them both giggle.

The taxi began to move in increments and then it was all smooth until they reached home again. John was hungry and began washing rice for whatever the hell he was going to make later on. Stir fry? Soup? Side dish? There was some cabbage, an onion, frozen corn, peas and carrots...yeah. Stir fry with eggs, hot sauce on the side. That would do.

As he sliced the cabbage he wondered as to his turn of good luck. That chance meeting with Mike - or was it fate? Either way, he was grateful for it. He already loved his room, and the chair behind him, and really, the whole atmosphere of the flat. Mrs. Hudson was something out of a Dickens novel. Sherlock took some getting used to, but he was fascinating. In a hands off kind of way, definitely. Now all John needed was a job and a girlfriend. Both should be easier now that he'd ditched the cane, and wasn't that a wonder? Even if the worst happened and he was out of here tomorrow, he was sure the cane wasn't coming with him. A miracle. 

Just as John finished whipping the raw eggs to drop into the frying vegetables, Sherlock came out of his room. He was, surprisingly, still dressed. He leaned against the counter with arms folded, watching John cook. 

“Almost ready,” said John, pouring the eggs into the pan.

“I have a wok, y’know.”

“Yes, but I couldn’t identify whatever was coating it. Seemed a safer bet just to use a frying pan.”

“You don’t trust my dishes.”

John tried hard not to roll his eyes; didn’t succeed. “Sherlock. You have jars of chemicals in the cupboards, an autoclave under the sink, and a tray of pig intestines in the crisper. Of course I don’t trust your dishes if they’re not properly washed. And no, you can’t use an autoclave for every day dishes, good god.”

“It was just the one c- “

“No!” John said loudly. He stirred everything rapidly, added soy sauce and a pinch of salt, dipped his spoon in and had a nibble. “Go get a plate. Do you want sesame oil or not?”

“Yes.”

John divided the rice and egg onto two plates, turned off the burner and put the pan in the sink before joining Sherlock at the table. He poured a few drops of sesame oil onto Sherlock’s rice, and the did the same for his own and dug in. He was almost done when Sherlock spoke.

“You didn’t need to do that.”

“Do what?”

“The thing. You did. In the taxi.”

“I did a thing in the taxi?” John scrunched his face, remembering, because the moment was over and there was no reason to hash over it again. “I swear I never watched El Dorado, not even once.”

Sherlock toyed with a pea on his plate. “Nonetheless.”

“Yeah, well. That guy’s an arsehole. No need to think of him ever again. Unless, of course, you need my help getting your revenge. Keep him from being head boy.”

Sherlock’s shoulders shook, John grinned, and they resumed eating their meal in much lighter moods.

**Author's Note:**

> Omg did I struggle with this. A plot never came to mind, so I just...started typing, and this is what came out. 
> 
> The former American Embassy was truly ugly on the outside, and hardly all that on the inside, for real. Got a lot of natural light, though.


End file.
